


Anger and Whiskey

by astxrwar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angry Sex, F/M, Lemon, Smut, Swearing, bit of Dom!Sam if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You play it a little risky on a hunt. Sam isn't pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Original Imagine:(Loosely) Imagine Sam pinning you to the wall with both hands held over your head, then thrusting his knee between your legs and ordering you to ride yourself to orgasm on his thigh.  
Author: kaylei-writes  
Reader Gender: Female  
Word Count: 1896  
Warnings: Swearing, a bit of Dom!Sam if you really squint, alcohol, arguing

A/N: Alright, this is the first oneshot I’ve ever actually finished, so, yay! A warning that it’s written in present tense, if that annoys anyone. Erm… First time writing Sam, and the layout of the bunker might be completely wrong, but I’ve only seen parts of it so most of this is from my imagination. Anyway, enjoy!

—-

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

The door slams shut with enough force to shake the frame, and you turn to face him with hands balled into fists at your sides. Sam, Sam Winchester, who’s six-foot-four and all muscle with his messy hair and quirky smile and those not-quite-green eyes that are screaming at you right now to be afraid.

But you don’t listen, because you never do, and you stare right back at him with a fire in your veins that you didn’t know you had. There’s a tense, taut silence so thick that if you tried hard enough you swore you could reach out and touch it, but you ignore it, busy thinking over your words, knowing that Sam will find every hole in your argument and tear it apart.

"I had it under control," You say, in a voice that is blunt and scratchy and more than a little tired. Before he can respond, you turn from him and throw your duffel into a chair with more force than was really necessary, focusing on fixing yourself a shot of whiskey and ignoring the feeling of his eyes boring a hole in the back of your head.

He walks over to you as you tip back your glass, the familiar burn soothing you for the moment, but then he speaks.

"Had it under control? That was nowhere near under control! If I hadn’t been there that last vamp would’ve torn your neck out!"

To be completely honest, you weren’t paying attention to him much because when you hear this every time you take the slightest risk, everything he says about your safety seems to blur together into one big mess of irrational overprotectiveness. Another shot sears down your throat and you’re pouring your third, in a last ditch attempt to fight off the headache that you can feel starting to drum it’s way into your mind, when Sam takes the bottle from your hands.

"Getting drunk isn’t going to fix this," He says sharply and you pretend you can't hear him. He’s doing it again- acting like the mature parent watching over a wayward child but you’re not a kid, and he doesn’t seem to realize that-it irritates the hell out of you.

You look at him and see a giant writhing mass of anger, and maybe that should terrify you but it’s what you see every day. He’s always angry or sad or upset in some way and you’re sick of it. He’s Sam Winchester and he damn well may have stopped the Apocalypse and saved the world and spared a million other lives while he was at it but to be fair he’s just as fucked up as you are. You don’t want to push him any further but you do, because someone has to make him realize that he doesn’t call all the shots. You tell yourself that’s why you retaliated, but truth is you don’t know the reason behind half the things you do these days.

"If you hadn’t been there- oh, don’t even start! I saved your ass at least once in there, and you saved mine, so we’re even! End of story, you hear me?"

You’re moving out from behind the counter that was acting as a buffer between the two of you- you’re gaining confidence because he’s not allowed to treat you like a child, and is he pouring himself a shot of whiskey? He is, and you snarl ‘Hypocrite’ under your breath as he downs one, then two. He doesn’t get to start on a third, because you come up to him and shove his shoulders back as hard as you can, because you’re just so angry. At him, at yourself, at everything.

"You- fuck, you’re _completely_ infuriating,” You hiss, before turning and heading for your bedroom door. More than anything you want this fucking trainwreck of a day to be over.

It’s jammed- in the summer when the wood swells with the heat, it gets trapped in the frame and it comes as no surprise, but the pause as you try to coax out the stuck wood is long enough for you to know that Sam’s behind you. You don’t want to turn around but there’s this rage in the pit of your stomach and as the seconds tick by it’s roaring through your veins, drowning out your heartbeat and setting every single nerve in your body on fire. You turn to face him and he’s too close, his eyes are dark and you admit to yourself that maybe you went too far. It’s your stupid, stubborn hunter pride that won’t let you back down, so you take a half-step forward and stare up at him with an unspoken dare- _Sam Winchester, the man who thinks everything through_ , your eyes taunt, _Do something reckless._

And he does.

He shoves you backwards and you hit the wall, jarring your shoulders enough to stun you for a second as he tangles his fingers in your hair and leans down- you’re not completely shocked when he kisses you, if that’s what it could be called. When his lips are on yours it’s angry, but that’s alright because you’re angry too. You were going to shove him back but instead your hands were fisting the fabric of his shirt, wanting him closer because closer was good, yes-

He tastes like whiskey and his lips are dry but it’s not like you really care, because you’d both nearly died already today, and that tended to put everything in perspective. He slants his mouth over yours and pries your lips open with his tongue- whiskey again, but there was something else, something salty and slightly tart that made your head spin.

He breaks the kiss for only a few seconds, enough to take in a ragged breath and make sure Dean isn’t back yet.

You groan when he bites your bottom lip because he bites it /hard/- there’s the faintest metallic tang of blood, but you don’t mind because you’re getting him back by digging your nails into his shoulders.

Sam slides his hands under your shirt- they’re calloused and scarred, scratching over the skin of your stomach as he pulls your button-down up over your head. You wonder for a moment if you’re moving too fast but as your fingers work over the buttons of his flannel you realize you don’t care. Fast is good. Fast is better than good because you’re not sure how much longer you can wait.

His mouth meets yours again and it’s impatient and demanding, he’s working on the button of your jeans at the same time and yanking the fabric over your hips. Your palms are on his broad chest until he pins your hands above your head, and you have just barely enough time to ask him what the fuck he’s doing between kisses. Your voice isn’t nearly as harsh as you wish it was, but maybe that’s because your inhibitions are completely gone and all you can focus on is Sam. You’re still pissed off and you can tell he is, too, because when his mouth moves to your neck, his teeth sink into your skin almost hard enough to draw blood. His erection is pressing hard into your hip, and you want to get his jeans off but Sam still has your hands trapped above your head- you open your mouth and you want to tell him to stop being a fucking tease.

"Fuck- Sam- Sam, _please_ ,” you say, and your voice is hoarse and brittle and it almost sounds like you’re begging- and then you think, and you realize you are. Usually you’re above pleading like this but right now there’s spurts of adrenaline flaring up your spine every time you felt the sting of his teeth on your neck and you can’t think. Your blood feels like liquid fire, a sensation that should have been unpleasant and if you weren’t backed up against the wall kissing Sam Winchester, maybe it would be.

And then he finally does something to get you off this lull that's gone from perfect to absolutely maddening- he moves his knee and he moves it up. You can feel him- the fabric of his jeans and the hard muscle of his thigh, pressed against your clit, and the cotton of your panties is damp enough to cling to your skin-

He rubs, just a little, and the sound that comes out of your mouth is so helplessly, hopelessly desperate- he kisses you again, and you end up moaning into his lips.

Your hips are rolling in a jerky rhythm against his thigh and you whimper, because it’s too much but at the same time it’s not enough. The pressure building in you is almost unbearable- hot and breathless and growing by the second. You’re getting close and Sam’s lips are suddenly gone, you know he’s watching you and that just makes it better- you look at him and his eyes are wide, a flush on his cheeks and his lips slightly parted.

He pushes up with his knee and you gasp, eyes flickering shut for a second- yes, _yes_ \- just a little more, just a little bit more- you’re stuck at the edge and it’s maddening. Sam chuckles when you let out a frustrated whimper, and it’s a gorgeously sexy sound that’s rich and dark and rumbling but it’s still not enough. You look at him and your lips are forming the word ‘please’ again and again, and he leans down to whisper in your ear- his voice is rough and blurred from the whiskey that seemed like forever ago.

"Come for me." He says breathlessly.

It shouldn’t be enough but it is, and your toes curl and you tremble and there are desperate, erotic sounds coming from the back of your throat that you don’t think you’ve ever made before. Everything is hot and white and you hear Sam groan “Oh, _fuck_ , (Name),” but he sounds so far away that you don’t know if it wasn’t just your imagination.

When you piece yourself back together, his hand is gone from your wrists but you think there might be bruises come tomorrow. Your legs are shaky and Sam is staring at you with lust in his eyes, his chest flush against your own, all heat and flesh and rippling muscle.

You start on the button of his jeans, but that’s when you hear Dean yelling from the main room that he’s back with dinner. It’s horrible timing and your curse, managing to grab your clothes and wrench open the door to your room, ducking inside and slamming it shut behind you. Sam must’ve gotten his shirt back on in time because you can hear him talking to Dean like you two hadn’t been about to fuck mindlessly in the kitchen.

When you come out to get dinner you’re back to normal again, jeans and a button-down and hair set just so to hide the hickeys on your neck. You glare at Sam like you always do, and he glares right back. Dean glances between the two of you and asks if he missed something- Sam shakes his head but his eyes never leave yours.

 _Don’t think this is over_ , they say.

It’s warm and muggy in the bunker, but even so, you shiver.


	2. Chapter 2

Better Now: Sequel to Anger and Whiskey  
Author: http://kaylei-writes.tumblr.com/  
Reader Gender: female  
Word Count: 2354  
Warnings: erm… Unsafe sex (sex without a condom), alcohol use, being drunk, some angst… I think that’s it.

A/N: Would love some constructive criticism for this one. Or any of my writing, really. Comments are hoarded like precious gems.

Fluffy-ish sweet-ish angsty-ish drunk Sam. Enjoy.

You don’t realize you’ve been avoiding him until Dean brings it up two weeks later.

"So…" He begins, and his voice is careful, like he’s treading on thin ice- you wonder why he’s acting that way, because you’ve made sure not to take any of your frustration out on him."Any reason why you’ve been avoiding Sam like the plague?" He says, adding "Did you two fight, or something?" as an afterthought.

You shake your head and shrug because you really, _really_ don’t want to talk to Sam Winchester’s older brother about how he nearly fucked you in the kitchen and then goes off and pretends it didn’t happen. One, because he’s Sam’s brother, and two, because it would only make things worse. He shrugs, and you forget about it for the next few days.

When it (whatever “it” is, because even you have no idea) comes up again, you’re on a hunt.

———

The Impala smells like leather and sandalwood (that’d be Sam) and too-strong cologne (Dean). The rain outside is coming down in sheets, and there’s the occasional crack of thunder.

Dean says something about finding a motel, and Sam argues that they’re on a schedule and urges Dean to get the hunt over with that day. Their voices are low and you can sense the effort it takes to keep it that way- you’d all been driving nearly nonstop for two days.

You don’t bother with their argument because you know Dean will win- it’s his car. It doesn’t surprise you when the sleek Chevy pulls into a nearly empty lot, and you can just barely make out the faded, flickering neon sign that reads “Motel”.

The rain bites into your skin as you hurry to the doors- the pavement is filled with muddy potholes and when you reach the lobby you’re all drenched and your boots are disgusting. The whole place smells stale and the wooden walls creak ominously as the storm rages outside. Dean checks in as some alias based on a rock band member, as per usual, and you follow the boys to the room.

The hallway is dim and cramped- Sam has to bend down so as to not hit his head on the ceiling- and your room is at the very end. Dean hands you a key and you wonder why, until he points to the door opposite.

"You and Sam bunk in there. I get this room," Dean says, and you open your mouth to argue but he cuts you off. "You two need to work out whatever is going on, cut the crap. I’m giving you a chance to do it, before your whole not-talking deal gets someone killed. And I’d like at least one wall between me and whatever yelling match you’re gonna have, alright?"

You want to argue but you know he’s right- it’s dangerous to hunt without a clear head. Sam’s eyes are briefly murderous and he takes a step forward but Dean ducks inside his room and shuts the door. The lock clicks and you know it’s useless trying to argue with him, so you turn to your room and sigh.

You unlock the door and put your duffel on the cheap splintering wood of the bedside table and for the millionth time, start on the safety routine you can remember doing since as early as six. Check for hex bags, salt lines on the windows and the door, EMF readings, knife under the pillow and pistol wedged in the space between the bed and the side table, jammed tight enough that it won’t fall to the floor but you’d still be able to pull it out easily.

In the space of 30 minutes, you and Sam share about five words. That night, you fall into an uneasy sleep on the edge of the bed, with your back turned to him.

The next day, Sam almost dies.

———

You think that maybe he underestimated the ferocity of the werewolf, and you fumble for the gun at your side as the beast raises one massive paw to slice him to shreds. The claws are an inch or so from his flesh and you’re too slow drawing your pistol when you hear a shot ring out from the other side of the warehouse.

You look up and the creature is staggering sideways, a crimson stain in the matted fur on it’s chest. Footsteps sound behind you and you turn- it’s Dean, and he walks over to Sam and offers him his hand, helping up his younger brother who’s marvelously- miraculously- still alive.

The car ride back to the motel is silent. Sam doesn’t argue when Dean says that you’re all spending the night at the motel. He sits in the back with a makeshift gauze bandage covering the sloppy stitches on his arm. There’s an ever-present bottle of some sort of alcohol that he keeps taking sips from- you can’t blame him, because the werewolf had gotten him pretty good, and neither you nor Dean were the best at stitches. His eyes meet yours, and you turn back, staring determinedly at the road and pretending you can’t feel his stare sending chills down your spine.

 

———

The motel is still musty, still cheap and still normal. The sheets are rumpled on the bed and there’s an imprint of yours and Sam’s bodies on separate sides of the cheap mattress, and briefly you contemplate what life would be like now, had he not survived.

There’s an icy silence weighing heavy in the air as Sam dumps his bag on the table and heads for the shower. You don’t ask him for help redoing salt lines because your pride won’t allow it, even though you’re more than irritated to be left doing the busywork. You figure he’s probably at least slightly drunk anyways because you know from experience that liquor hits hard on an empty stomach.

The sound of the shower running leaks faintly out from beneath the door, and you sigh. In a cheap motel like this, by the time Sam’s done your shower will be lukewarm at best.

Damn.

You shake your head and open the bathroom door, slipping inside and shutting it behind you as quietly as you can. The sound of running water masked any noise you made as you struggled with the bloodstained fabric clinging to your skin. When you step into the shower, Sam doesn’t say a word.

You hadn’t showered with him since the argument, afraid of just how awkward the situation would be. Truthfully you’d missed having another pair of work-worn hands to scrub the blood from your skin. It was one of the small things that made your life less of a living hell.

 

Tonight there’s a heaviness to your limbs and a bone-weary exhaustion clouding your mind, and all you care about is showering and then maybe going to sleep. Sam is still silent, tense- not an angry kind of tense, almost defeated- and you realize that he’s tired, too. His hair is thick and dark and falls almost to his shoulders- he must’ve trimmed it. There’s a fresh scar across the powerful muscles of his upper back, disappearing over the curve of his shoulder, and it’s still a raw pink. You pour cheap motel soap into your hands and start to wash away the sweat and ever-present dried blood on his skin that no matter how long he spends trying, never quite comes off.

He lets out a ragged breath, like he’s in pain. It’s a weirdly intimate noise coming from Sam Winchester, because it’s vulnerable- something that he tries to never be. You murmur soothing words to him, but they dissipate in the steam.

His muscles are coiled and tight- you knead his shoulders gently with your thumbs, and he groans as the tension eases. You work down to his lower back and feel him start to lean into your touch- for a moment you can almost believe everything’s back to normal between the two of you.

When you manage to get most of the blood off, he turns to face you. His eyes are dark and glassy- he looks exhausted. The sort of mind-numbing tiredness that never goes away no matter how much you sleep.

You turn away, washing and rinsing your hair, letting the silence drag out. It stays like that, quiet and tense for a long while. When he slips his arms around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder, you let him.

"I’m sorry," he mumbles hoarsely into your neck.

"Don’t be."

When you finish showering and drying off, the steam has dissipated and your limbs are weighing you down like stones. Sam’s lips press gently to your shoulder- this time, you know what you’re getting into.

Nothing happens fast- your head is (mostly) clear and your movements deliberate.

The thin motel towels are discarded somewhere between the bathroom and the bed- the springs of the mattress creak and his hands trace lightly over the old hunting scars on your arms. He’s looking up at you, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, down across your collarbones. His hands are on your hips, smoothing over the skin in small circles. You place a hand on his chest and the other grips his shoulder as he kisses your lips. It’s sweet and gentle, and you think you’ve finally reached him, the real Sam Winchester who’s not distant or barren or empty. You lean into the kiss and his half-hard cock smears precum over your stomach. When you trail the hand on his chest down tdown to coil around his , he groans and bucks against you. He sighs your name and tangles his fingers in your hair, tugging you closer, and you nip lightly at the exposed skin of his neck. He inhales sharply and shudders- you kiss right below his ear and ask shakily, “More?”

He nods, you don’t see but you can feel him move. The pad of your thumb slides over the head of his cock, stroking harder now. Your eyes flutter closed when he lets out a frustrate groan, bucking up into your fist.

"Please," He says through gritted teeth. "You, please, I want you."

He sits up against the headboard and tugs your hips up onto his lap- your hand moves from his cock to his thigh, digging nails into the hard muscle. You can feel him against you, hard and hot and thick. There’s a brief pause as your other hand grips his shoulder before he rocks his hips against you, into you- only about an inch, but he’s bigger than you’d thought and it hurts.

"Sammy," You groan, and he stills, burying his face in your hair as one hand follows up the arch of your back, fingers pressing into your shoulders.

"Shh," He mumbles, "Shh, I know… Relax, (Name), just relax…"

Your head falls to his chest and he runs his fingers through your hair, rolling his hips in shallow motions.

You’re prepared for the pain as he bottoms out, but what comes with it is a feeling of being just utterly, completely filled. Sam strokes your hair, so patient as you adjust to him.

"You okay?" He asks hoarsely, and you nod.

His hands find your hips and start a gentle, rolling rhythm, until you’re confident enough to start rocking your hips against his.

"See…" He starts, his voice breathless and interrupted by short groans, "People think… things have to be rough to feel good." Sam moves one hand to your lower back and the other brushes the hair from your face. His fingers ghost over your lips, coaxing them open, slipping into your mouth.

"But that’s where… That’s where they’re wrong." He thrusts up shallowly and you groan around his fingers, eyes flickering shut as something electric thrums lowly in your veins, and you scrabble desperately for a grip on his muscular shoulders. His other hand had moved, now splayed against your stomach, and you only become aware when he starts inching it down. Your cheeks hollow out, sucking gently on the fingers in your mouth as his wandering gets him closer and closer to what you need-

"It all has to do with…" He’s interrupted by his own hoarse moan, and he takes a shuddering breath before continuing on. "Knowing how to please."

One finger presses against your clit, hard, as he rocks into you again, and you’re tipping over the edge, focusing so hard on him and trying not to drown in this tidal wave of bright tingling crashing fucking something. Far away you can hear him and his endless stream of encouragement- “Yes, (Name), oh fuck yes- there’s a good girl, yes, just like that- sweetheart, come for me, like that- _fuck_ , you feel so good, my good girl, mine-“

When you finally come down it feels so utterly amazing that it hurts and you beg him to stop as another thrust sends you tumbling over another edge and down, down, down- _yes, oh god yes, please-_ you suck hard on the fingers in your mouth, arching, and hear Sam groan.

"You’re so beautiful, (Name)," he mumbles. "So good. Good girl, you’re such a good girl... I’m so close, yes, oh fuck-“

You clench around him and he lets out a choked gasp, shuddering and rocking into you hard, pulsing, tensing, strung taut and wracked with shivers as he comes. You feel him inside of you and your eyes roll back a little, a dazed moan catching in the back of your throat.

He pulls you in for a kiss, sweet and laced with remnants of whiskey. You move off of him and roll onto your back in the blankets. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on your forehead and your thighs are slick with Sam’s come but you’re too tired to care. He pulls you to him with strong arms and buries his face in your hair.

"Are we better now?" You ask softly.

Sam chuckles and replies in a muffled voice blurred with alcohol and growing hazy with sleep, “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”


End file.
